


Scream and Shout

by Penelope_Pineapple (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, F/M, Ghost Dean, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Dean, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Writer Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-13 05:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11753445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Penelope_Pineapple
Summary: While traveling across the country for his brother's college graduation, Dean Winchester can't wait to see Sam finally achieve his dream. Too bad, Dean never got to see it happen. Instead, the oldest Winchester was found, four days after the graduation, stabbed to death in a vacant house in rural Kansas.  There's no leads, no suspects, no evidence, and no one to tell what truly happened.Six years later and the world's still turning. Sam's moved on, the old house has been sold, and Dean Winchester is no more than a name on a case file in a box. As time moves on and the murder is forgotten, Castiel Novak quickly moves into the vacant old house, getting it for a steal. Unaware of it's dark history, Cas believe his home to be perfect; small, cozy, a little bit of a fixer upper, but in a good way. He can't see why it was never sold. That is, until strange things start happening; slamming doors, faces in empty windows, items going missing without reason. Quite frightened, Castiel begins looking into the house's history and, as the truth is revealed, it becomes evident that even in death, Dean Winchester likes to raise a little hell.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Welcome to this amazingly awful thing that I call a first chapter! So, yeah, I made this. I don't know how good it is or how awful it is, but it's here. This is what you get when I watch the season 12 finale and Patrick Swayze's Ghost back to back at two A.M. Yeah, it's probably going to be a train wreck. Hope you enjoy, nevertheless. I did put a fair amount of effort into this, although my writing skills aren't too polished, so I maybe it won't be horrendous. Enjoy everyone!

"You know, maybe you should see a doctor." 

Jessica's frown deepened as she leaned over her laptop, typing furiously in the low light of the living room. Sam's voice came muffled from beyond their bedroom door, thick and heavy, concern punctuating every word. She had to physically fight the urge to roll her eyes, knowing the he was probably right, but bulking against the suggestion just for pride's sake. 

Despite her sour mood and less than perfect health at the moment, she had dressed to the best of her capabilities, attempting to hide her pale, gaunt expression under a mask of makeup. She had also dawned the new dress Sam bought her for their anniversary- a white summer dress that clung to her in all the right place- and a nice pair of heels. After all, tonight was a special night. A celebration, in fact. It's not every day you become a college graduate and, although it was nearly a week ago, Jess couldn't get rid of the pride she felt when she saw Sam with his diploma, knowing he wanted nothing more in the entire world. Nothing more except her, that is. The ring on her finger was proof of that. Nevertheless, they finally had a chance to celebrate their accomplishments and tonight was going to be a wonderful night; a fancy dinner, dancing, a walk in the park maybe. She couldn't stop herself from being a helpless romantic, dreaming up the most perfect evening imaginable. 

As though to bring her back to reality, however, away from all the glitter and gold of her fantasy, the screen loaded on her computer, page filled with millions of links and websites. In the search bar, she had listed a number of symptoms, ones that had plagued her for days- at least to Sam's knowledge. If she was being completely honest, it was more like weeks. 

Nausea, fatigue, headaches, backaches, cramps, bloating, vomiting; she had experienced each one in turn and it only seemed to get worse. Sam had brought up the topic again as he began to get ready for their evening, asking her if she felt sick before venturing into the bathroom for a shower. He didn't want a repeat of the events this morning when she didn't make it to the mark in time. Of course, she brushed him off, laughing and joking and shaking her head, but he had been serious. Incredibly so. Such fierce worry prompted her to finally swallow her fears and search for the symptoms that plagued her. However, she already had a hunch of what it might be. And, as the pages loaded, her fears were confirmed. 

A plethora of pregnancy websites were lined up before her, marked with names like "Parent Corner" and "Mommy To Be" and, worst of all, "Little Bundle Care". Jessica stared at the screen in disbelief, eyes the size of saucers, scrolling up and down to find that it only continued. She was about to click on a link when suddenly a sharp ring cut through the silence, jerking her out of her stupor. Shell shocked, she turned her head vaguely, realizing after a moment that the sound was merely the telephone. Unable to shake the image before her, completely engrossed in her research, she cried out. 

"Sam, could you get that? I'm kind of busy." Jessica called as she hunkered further over her laptop, reading and rereading the print for conformation, fingers pressed to her temple as the irate ringing began to grate on her already splintered nerves. As though on cue, Sam emerged from the bedroom, dressed to the nines and prepared for a wonderful time. Upon first glance, Jess was star struck, so familiar with the sighted of her well-dressed fiance, yet so gripped at the same time. However, as the initial surprise wore off, an even more pressing fact dawned on her. Despite her attempted to dress to impress, she felt she failed in comparison. Sam looked spiff, put together, and rather dashing in his suit and tie, that boyish grin making her heart flutter. She, on the other hand, looked peaked, face flushed, and sweat beading on her forehead. She knew her eyes were dull, dark circles developing after sick nights with no sleep. Despite her best efforts, her snug dress, and all her pining for a perfect appearance, the vibe that came from her was anything but manicured. The distress was evident in her look, in her speech, and in the way she moved. Something was clearly wrong and, under the shadow of Sam's model presentation, it was blatant. So much so, that her boyfriend raised an eyebrow in question as he passed, focus hanging on her for a moment too long, the confusion smeared across his face.  
"I got it." He said, almost as an afterthought, rounding the corner and heading into the kitchen. His voice carried back to her as he made his way to the receiver, "What are you reading anyways? Are you finally looking up your symptoms like I suggested? Is it bad?" 

"It's nothing." She fibbed, stealing a glance as he came striding back into the room. Sam held the phone in his hand, completely ignoring its violent shriek as he peered at her. The expression he wore was a familiar one; almost as though he was asking if she really believed him to be so stupid. After all, anyone could tell her half-hearted attempt to curb his fear was nothing more than that: half-hearted. A lie. And yet, despite the rues being overthrown, she shut down the conversation just as he opened his mouth to speak, hoping for a temporary fix to the situation, "Answer the damn phone." 

With a sigh, Sam clicked the answer button, pressing the piece to his ear, "Hello?"  
Almost as if someone had flipped a switch, his whole demeanor changed, brightening so much so that Jess had to do a double take. The smile that formed on his lips was absolutely stunning, full of childish delight. 

"Hey Bobby!" He called, loud and cheerful, eyes shining gaily in the lamplight. Jessica almost rolled her eyes at that, noting the way Sam spoke, as though he was finally reuniting with a long-lost friend after many years. In reality, the two had seen each other only four days ago, Bobby hesitantly flying out to California for their graduation. Of course, he had been disgruntled over the whole thing, tense and uneasy from the moment he left home. Bobby had never been the most sociable guy, often opting for solitude rather than companionship, but he had made an exception this time. He did care about his boys, after all, and it was nice for Sam to have someone there to share in the joy of his accomplishments with. 

Realizing that Sam was far too happy to hang up anytime soon, Jessica took this moment to plot her escape, seeing her chance to search to her hearts content in the safety of their bedroom. Away from prying eyes and pesky Winchesters. At this point the evidence seemed quite clear, almost irrefutable, yet she had to be one hundred percent before bringing it up to Sam. No, one hundred and ten percent. After all, they had their plan, a road map of sorts that she had actually intended to follow. This wasn't supposed to happen until well after they were married, settled in, and solid in the finance department. Sam wanted a family, that was clear, but it was also his biggest far. The reasoning behind that was no mystery, given his troubled upbringing, and she never wanted him to be thrown into this without being completely and utterly prepared. Although, that option seemed to be off the table at this point. She had to know for certain before dropping such a big bomb. 

Gathering her laptop into her arms, intending to flee as Sam carried on with his conversing, Jess stopped short as a cry came from the man, sharp and panicked, all cheer being lost in the fray. 

"What? Bobby, slow down! I need you to repeat that for me!" Jessica watched, frozen in place, as Sam's expression wilted, crumbling as he swallowed tensely. The stress that constricted his voice was tight, gripping even, each word coming out clipped and strangled.  
"Sam?" She tried, closing her laptop and sitting it on the coffee table. Immediately, she reached for him, hands open, intending for the touch to be calming. Instead, he recoiled from it, whipping around to face her as if he had just been shocked. Her breath caught as she watched him falter, the receiver slipping from his hands and striking the floor with a sharp clatter. In that moment, everything seemed to freeze. Jessica stood, still as stone, watching as Sam held one hand over his mouth, a flash of emotion washing across his face: fear, panic, anger, heartbreak. He made a noise as if he was going to cry, then seemed to change his mind, swallowing back the sound with all his strength. 

"Sam?" Jessica piped again, voice small and weak and far too frightened to sound comforting. Her fiance's eyes rose, smoldering in the dim, full of something she could only describe as anguish. For a moment, everything was quiet. Ethereal, even. No one spoke, no one moved, no one did anything. And finally, Sam nodded. He nodded, biting his lower lip, hands shaking with anger or sadness or something along those lines. He nodded as if to say "I knew it." And when he spoke, it was with such conviction that one would have to think that he had been expecting such a call of quite some time. 

"Of fucking course." He spoke, tears crackling his speech, "Of course, it's Dean. It had to be Dean. Isn't it always?" 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Dean Winchester was buried early Monday morning, a small caravan of people making their way through the gloom towards the graveyard, all dressed in black. White, crisp sunlight glimmered between the branches of the sugar maples as they gathered around the burial site, faces stricken and gaunt in the gauzy light. A subtle mist had settled over the yard, making for a hell of an atmosphere as they took a moment to gawk at the lacquered oak coffin, mouths agape and unsure as though everyone was waiting for it to be over. Like it was all some big joke and Dean would pop up any minute now laughing, telling them all how stupid they were for falling for such a trick. And yet, no one laughed, no one joked, and there was no Dean Winchester to be seen. Just an ugly wooden box with its silver latches and engraving, smooth surface glittering in the newly awakened sun. 

The news of Dean's death had spread fast, Bobby making sure to get the word out before Monday came. After speaking with the detectives, learning that there wasn't really going to be much of an investigation, Sam decided it was best to have his brother put in the ground as soon as possible. 

Him and Jess had flown out the morning after Bobby called, landing in Wichita by nightfall. They barely had settled into their hotel when morning came and they were meeting with police. The officer had been frank when they met, sparing no gory detail and making sure he didn't gloss over the truth. Dean had been found in a run down, old farm house on some back road in rural Kansas, a told of six stab wounds in his chest and a knife jutting from his trachea. His Impala was abandoned out front, doors open, any cash or valuables he may have had taken by the assailant. There was no disputing that the crime was anything, but personal. Vicious in manner, without mercy; that's how the deputy had described it, shaking his head with a grimace. He wouldn't have had a chance to fight back. It was rapid, almost instant, and although the attack was over before he knew what was happening, Dean still would have those moments of panic as he bled to death, choking and sputtering and wondering why the hell everything bad always happened to him. For Sam, knowing how it happened was the hardest part. 

It would have been an easier pill to swallow if Dean died in some fitting sort of way. If he had been hot rodding in the Impala, being his normal jerky self, trying to show off his bravo, and taken a curve too sharp, Sam could have accepted it. If he had died of alcohol poisoning, whisky on his breath and a sexy barista on each arm, Sam could have accepted it. Even if he would have been taken down in some sort of late night, bar brawl that went too far, spewing insults and cursing to high heaven, Sam could have accepted it. This, however, was unlike any of those things. This just made him angry. Angry enough to kill. 

And then came the second kick to the head. They were never going to know who did it. Sam had listen, knuckles turning white as his hands clenched, as the detective explained to him exactly what was going on with their investigation. Or, rather, he explained their lack of one. The had combed the whole house, searched the body, asked around if anybody knew anything, and yet, there was no sign of their killer. No fingerprints, no motive, no inkling as to who done it, and no possible way to figure it out. Whoever had murder Dean Winchester was clever; clever enough not to get caught. And with each word the detective spoke, Sam felt his blood pressure rising, felt the tear pricking the corners of his eyes. He could feel the guilt swelling, eating him up. He could feel the pain, seething just below his skin, aching in a way he had never ached before. 

He had asked about the man who found the body, words sputtering out, fighting to keep calm. Was he a suspect? What was he doing there? Why weren't they looking into him? The detective had stared at him, eyes solemn, voice stalled as he tried to find the best way to approach the subject. 

The man who found Dean wasn't a suspect. In fact, he had been states away at the time, visiting a couple of friends down in Tampa. He had come home Wednesday night, meeting his elderly wife at the door with a kiss and a smile. The old couple were both well into their seventies, frail and feeble, and neither of them had been to the farm house since the husband's departure a week prior. He had checked on the property the next morning, intending to make sure it was in shape seeing as he had a couple coming by to tour later that afternoon. The farm house had been for sell for month, unlived in, a few buyers interested in signing on the land. All hope of selling had definitely been squashed, however, by this point. 

So, hearing the detectives speak and learning that the case was already cold, Sam decided to bury his brother on that muggy Monday morning. There was no need to hesitate and no need to have an actual funeral. If anything, Dean wouldn't have wanted one. He was always like that, groaning at the idea of the unnecessary. Besides, it would have been a closed casket viewing anyways. 

The youngest Winchester stood quietly to the side, hands in pockets, obscured in the shade of the trees, watching as the rest of their collective paid their respects. It was a small group, nothing more than their closest friends, and Sam seemed to take pride in that. Luckily, none of Dean's ex-girlfriends decided to show up. Wouldn't that be a show?  
Among the mourners, there stood a very teary Garth Fitzgerald, a glassy eyed Kevin Tran, and Benny, expression unreadable as he too hung back and watched the other's approach that casket. Charlie Bradbury also came, walking towards the coffin with slow, uneasy steps. Her palm landed on the wood with a thud, patting gently as though she was comforting an old friend. None of them spoke, no one said anything, the only sound being Jessica's muffled tears as she buried her face in Sam's shoulder. Bobby stood with them, doing as much as he could possibly do, placing one hand on Sam's shoulder as he gave a grave shake of his head. 

It took no more than thirty minutes for the mourners to say their piece, for Sam to make a quick spill about how much Dean meant to all of them and what a good brother he was, for all of them to murmur a quick prayer, and pack up. By the time everything was said and done, by the time it was all over, Sam was emotional drained, shaken to the core and wrecked beyond repair. His mind swam with all the sweet words of his friends, condolences and well wishes, tearful apologizes and hopes for better days. By that point, he only wanted to get back to his hotel and fall asleep, wishing that it would come easy to him unlike how it had in the last few nights. Since getting that call, he couldn't close his eyes without seeing Dean, without hearing his voice, without remembering every single thing his brother had ever done for him. All he wanted was for the day to be over. 

However, as Bobby and Jessica crowded him, hands reaching out to him in support, there was one more surprise waiting for him. One more shock to solidify this day as one of the worst of his life. As he glanced passed the two, eyes dull and wandering, he saw him, standing there with arms crossed and shoulders squared. John Winchester looked back at him, swallowing hard, mute as he looked back between his youngest son and the freshly dug grave behind him. It took a minute for Jess and Bobby to figure out that something was wrong, both turning slowly to peer at the calloused man in their crosshairs. 

For a moment they all stood silently, looking at each other uncertainly, John's lips moving as though he wanted to say something, anything. However, the words never came. Instead, he took one more look at Sam, eyes wide and unreadable, glanced at Dean's grave, shook his head, and walked away. 

Bobby was cursing before he was even out of earshot, angry at him for not doing something, not saying something, not being there when his kids needed him. He looked at Sam with face red, eyes burning in the slanted morning light. And yet, Sam said nothing. Rather, he merely nodded his head, deciding that he would give his father credit where credit was due. At least he showed up. That was more than anyone expect of him. 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jessica blinked through the dim, awaking suddenly from her fitful sleep. Around her, the hotel room seemed to breath with life. The old air conditioning unit hummed in the corner, the sporadic sounds of traffic rumbled from beyond the window, Sam snored restlessly at her side, asleep, but not for long. Dragging a tired hand across her cheek, she peered around the room, brain still whirling with images of white sun lite afternoons and a man in a worn leather jacket; a man with a smile that could make even the meanest of shrews' swoon. She had dreamed of Dean, looking as smug and suave as always, leaned back against his beloved Impala as though it was just any other day. 

The image made her heart ache, wounds absolutely seething in the wake of his funeral. Even though she had only met Dean on a handful of occasions, Jessica still felt the full blow of his death. The impact was irrefutable, striking cold and clear through anyone who knew him personally. Sam was direct evidence of that. Despite that fact that he hadn't cried, hadn't shed a single tear, one only need to steal a glance at him to know that the young man's heart was breaking. 

Jessica shifted in bed, pushing back the heavy comforter, struggling to breath in all too stuffy hotel room, the cold sweat that pepper her skin doing nothing to curb her discomfort. Through the dark, she moved, straightening and pushing her long hair back over her shoulders in an attempt to calm herself. The dream still swam before her, the picture of Dean Winchester printed to her memory, reminding her of times when she had come in contact with him. The times that made her feel immensely guilty for not knowing him as well as she did. 

Dean had only visited them a couple of months ago, right after New Year's. He had come on a bright Sunday morning, Sam rushing out to meet him the moment he spot the Impala in the apartment's parking lot. There had been a lot of jokes, a lot of laughs, and a lot of smiles as Jessica presented her engagement ring to the man. Dean had absolutely beamed with pride at his younger brother, clapping him on the shoulder, murmuring "You did good man" until Sam had practically beg him to stop. He had been so happy for them. She sighed, the memory fading as she heard the mattress creak beside her, such sudden movements drawing her attention. She glanced back to see that Sam had rolled over on his side, face now creased with worry and eyes squinted in distress. He must have been dreaming of the same thing. 

Falling back on the bed, admiring Sam through the dark, unsure if he was asleep or awake, impressed beyond reason with his strength and poise during such a hard time, Jessica had to wonder how she ended up so lucky. He had every right to be angry, to be sad, to be devastated, and yet, he still managed to keep it together. He had talked with Bobby that evening, smiling and assuring him that everything was going to be fine. He had addressed everyone at the burial, speaking considerably and without issue. Even when she asked him if he was really okay, he merely nodded, grinning for her sake. Oh god, she was so lucky. She was so lucky to have such a caring, amazing, honest man in her life. Biting her lower lip, thinking back on everything that happened this afternoon, everything that had happened over the last few days, Jessica tried to make sense of it all. The call, the funeral, the pregnancy; all the things she needed to tell Sam. All she wanted to say to him. She wanted to wait until he was in a better place, until the wounds weren't fresh and aching, until he could actually be happy about her announcement, and yet, she felt as though she was betraying him by not saying anything. Like she was keeping a secret. A secret she definitely needed to tell. 

"Sam, are you awake?" She whispered, thinking back to the pregnancy tests that she had shoved deep down in the pocket of her suitcase, zipped up and packed away where he wouldn't see. She thought of standing in line at the convenience store across from her hotel, engagement ring shinning on her finger in the florescence as she placed three identical packages on the counter. The old lady at the register had smiled at her and she forced a smile onto her lips as well, nodding absently when the woman asked if her and her husband were hoping for a positive result. She could still feel the adrenaline pumping through her veins, fast and furious, as the two identical pink lines appeared on the strip; once, twice, then for a third time. There was no denying it. She was indeed pregnant, and as Sam gave a muffled yes in response to her question, she took his hands in hers, moving them directionlessly to her stomach. He paused for a moment, breath heavy on her neck, confused and curious and far too overwhelmed to even try and develop a theory as to what was going on. 

She squeezed his hands in her, fingers knotting together, and spoke sharp and clear, "I was going to wait and tell you, but I thought good news would help you sleep easier. I'm pregnant." 

There was no hesitation, no pause, no way to misunderstand what she was saying. Jessica's words were straight forward, cutting into Sam like the sharp end of a knife, forcing him to pause and yield, frozen rigid just behind her back. For a moment, neither of them said anything. Neither of them moved. And then, as though he had been rebooted, Sam came to life, arms closing around her and all but crushing her against his chest. He clung to Jessica desperately, one hand over her stomach, the other pulled up to her chest He clung to her and, like someone had finally opened a floodgate, he cried. He cried and cried and cried. He cried for Jessica and their baby. He cried for himself and Bobby. He cried for Garth and Kevin and Benny and Charlie. He even cried for his father, who was god knows where doing god knows what. Who was now a grandfather regardless of how sporadically he made contact with his son. 

But most of all, he cried for Dean Winchester. 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

6 Years Later....

The day had peaked, scalding and hot, as Castiel Novak carefully drove up the long dirt road leading to his new home, ignoring the auditable groans that came from the passenger seat as they coasted. Gabriel sat beside him, sprawled in the most unusual of manners, sweat developing on his temple as he shot his brother a look of utter annoyance.  
They had been on the road for a number of hours, time beginning to blur as they just kept on cruising, Gabriel's nerves splintered and thin from being cooped up in the car for so long. He had passed the time pensively, cranking up the radio, rolling and unrolling the windows, thumbing through the various travel brochures Castiel kept shoved in the glove box. Nevertheless, nothing could curb his boredom and, finally, he had given up, collapsing back in his seat to brood in silence. And, when the brooding too lost its appeal, he was ready to burst in agitation. He made obnoxious sounds, groaning and snorting, trying his best to grate on his little brother's nerves and, when that had no effect, he finally spoke up. 

"Are we almost there?" He exploded, voice cracking through the silence. Castiel's hands visibly tightened around the steering wheel, back rigid from the outburst. He took a deep breath, head swiveling towards his brother, gaze sharp enough to kill. 

"Must you always be so loud." Castiel spoke evenly, each word clear and concise despite his sudden shock. 

"I'm not loud." Gabriel assured, pressing an open palm to his cheek, panting dramatically in the afternoon sun. Despite having the air conditioner cranked up, the car was sweltering, heat pouring over them as practical baked in their tiny metal container. Gabriel swore he was starting to cook in the fervor, skin boiling and upholstery molten against his back. Shifting loudly, looking for salvation against the blaze, he sighed despondently and stared back at his brother, "I'm just unhappy." 

"You're never satisfied with anything." Castiel spoke promptly, each word pointed as though he was trying to correct the previous comment. Gabriel shot him a look, eyes cutting and harsh like daggers. 

"I never should have come." He huffed, "You take me out in the middle of nowhere, swear it will only take an hour or so, and keep me in a hot car all afternoon. Where is this house you wanted to show me? Where are we going?" 

"First of all, to clarify, you insisted upon coming. I never asked. Secondly, if you would only look before speaking....," Castiel trailed off, waving a wayward hand out the windshield. Gabriel flicked his gaze to the side, away from Castiel, and ahead, taking note of the house that had suddenly cropped up in their front view. They approached steadily, the building growing larger and larger before them. 

It was a big place, shabby upon outlook, built from weathered dark wood with a tin roof and a large porch out front. A swing hung on a rusted chain. The front yard grew, unkept and unruly, desperately in need of a good mowing. The pathway leading up to the steps was chipped and broken, pieces of cobblestone barely visible in the overgrowth. A rustic wooden fence, cheaply pain white, protruded from the ground like sharp, gnarled teeth, rotten and broken with age. Overall, it would have been a homey place, if not for all the decay and lack of upkeeping. Castiel had no doubt that the house would have been for a much higher price if not for its deplorable condition. 

"Is that it?" Gabriel spat, glaring through the windshield with minor curiosity and overwhelming disgust. 

"Yes," Castiel said with finality, eyes trailing on the dust stained windows and splintered wooden steps, the weather worn paint and busted screen door, "My new home."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! First off, thank you all for so much reading! I really appreciate the response and kudos and everything. I'm probably over reacting, but I'm just so happy that some of you guys really enjoyed this! I'm sorry that it took so long to get this chapter out. I've been having a pretty rough week. My dog has been sick since last Monday. She's always been kind of sickly, but lately she's just been laying around and struggling to eat. I've called the vet and he told us that if it continues we should bring her in. We taking her tomorrow. Between work and school and worrying about my little Lady, I haven't had time to do any writing. Hopefully she'll be back to normal soon and I won't take so long to get new chapters up. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you all enjoy. I really struggled with this chapter. My mind has just been so preoccupied with all so many different thing. I promise It won't take me so long to post next time. Stay lovely everyone!

_He arrived in late April, hoping to make it to California_ _before week's end_ _._ _One day, maybe two. That's all he would stay. After all, Sam was waiting on him. His graduation was waiting. A very big day, indeed. And Dean couldn't miss it. He wouldn't miss it. Not for anything. But she wasn't just anything. She was_ _definitely_ _a something. Something special. She changed everything. She turned those days into weeks and then those weeks became months. And then he was stuck there forever. All because of her._  

 _On_ _the first day, she was apprehensive, glaring at Dean from behind the counter as she served him. He had only arrived that morning, tired and hunger pained, eager to get a hot a meal in his belly._ _He hadn't been down to this part of Kansas in a long time_ _._ _A y_ _ear or two at_ _the least._ _Usually_ _, he spent most of his time in South Dakota, hanging around Bobby's place, roaming all over the West_ _when_ _ever_ _he pleased. He was always heading somewhere; Wyoming, Washington, Texas, Colorado. This time, he had_ _business_ _i_ _n Kentucky. Hadn't been there in a long time either. That's when Sam called. Damn, it had been nice to hear his voice. Graduation; it seemed like only yesterday he was setting out for Stanford. Dean couldn't help but be slightly_ _overzealous_ _when the invitation came to stay with him and Jessica for the week._ _So, that how he found himself making a beeline for California, eating at one of the best diners in all of Kansas. He'd eaten here once before. Had the_ _most delicious_ _pie for miles. How could he pass it_ _up_ _?_ _Not to mention a good breakfast,_ _too._  

 _Eggs, bacon, fresh coffee. His stomach growled just thinking about it. And then, there she was._  

 _There was no fondness in her gaze, eyes cold and steely, sharp beneath wispy bangs and high arching eyebrows. She served him with a frown, teeth almost gritting. She threw down his plate, whipped out the_ _rec_ _eipt_ _, and stormed off, shoes clicking on the gray tile floor. So much for hospitality._  

 _Dean watched her go, unsure of what just happened, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He didn't recognize her. Not in the slightest. He wracked his brain for a memory of her; could she have been an old friend? Old girlfriend, even? Had he slept with her before? That was_ _actually_ _a_ _possibility_ _. Usually the only time he got a look like that was when he happened to run into one of his exes. Considering how much he traveled, passing from town to town, he made quite a few enemies and left a long line of broken hearts in his under tow._ _One-night_ _stands were nasty business and, most often_ _,_ _that was the only type of_ _business_ _he_ _dealt_ _in. Relationships were messy, complicated, and took far too much time._ _Time_ _he didn't have._ _He didn't visit_ _the same place over and over_ _a_ _g_ _ain_ _very often, but when he did, he_ _usually_ _had a run_ _with_ _an_ _ex-_ _lover of some sort._  

 _Or maybe that wasn't it at all. Maybe he was just over thinking it. After all, even after a long look, he couldn't place her face. She was beautiful. Very beautiful. He would never forget a face like that, no matter how long it had been since he last saw her_ _._  

 _Maybe she was just some lady who was having a bad_ _day_ _._ _Boyfriend_ _tr_ _ouble_ _, family issues, something along those lines; the works, you know?_ _Shaking his head, he decided not to think too much about it. There was no reason to sweat it. He'd be gone by tomorrow anyways. It didn't matter. Scarfing down the rest of his meal, Dean quickly paid in cash and headed back to his motel,_ _looking forward to checking out the bar down the street later that night._  

 _On the second day, however, his assumption that she was simply just angry was proven to be very untrue. On the second day, she was even worse. Dean came to the diner early that morning, hoping to grab a quick bite and hit the road. Sam was waiting_ _and what a wonderful surprise it would be for him to arrive ahead of_ _schedule_ _. He could see his brother's face now, so familiar, all charmed_ _and grinning and full of delight that Dean only wished he could see so often. He would be greeted with warmth and smiles and, hopefully, a plate of Jessica's delicious chocolate chip cookies that Sam always raved about._ _Apparently_ _, she was a godsend and made his brother's life heaven with treats and presents like that. Dean couldn't wait. He had always been a sucker for_ _sweet_ _s._  

 _And_ _so, since it was so close to his hotel, Dean decided to make another stop for breakfast and then be on his way. After all, service couldn't get much worse and he'd be gone in_ _an_ _hour_ _'s time_ _. Sliding into one of the old_ _viny_ _l_ _booths,_ _eager to be on his way, Dean watched the same young woman_ _approa_ _c_ _h_ _to take his order. As soon as her eyes landed on him, her expression crumbled,_ _visibly_ _darkening._  

 _"What can I get you, sir?" She asked with ice in her voice, clutching her ink pen and notepad in_ _an_ _ironclad grip. Her eyes surged, hot and angry, wrath flickering beneath her pretty façade. Dean answered quickly, watching as she flittered away and returned with inhuman speed. She tossed his plate on the table_ _uncer_ _em_ _oniously_ _, the dish skittering and striking the salt and pepper shakers on the far side of his booth._ _Imme_ _diate_ _ly_ _, Dean's gaze tore up to her, surprised by the_ _crippling rage she exhibited_ _. Angry again? This_ _definit_ _e_ _ly_ _was something personal. He couldn't deny that now._  

 _"Do I know you?" He sputtered_ _jar_ _r_ _ingly_ _, leaning forward towards her, "Because obviously you have a hell of a problem with me."_  

 _"You really don't remember me?" She asked_ _,_ _incred_ _ul_ _ous_ _, hand snapping up to her chest as though she had been bit. She stared at him for a moment longer, confused, angry, trying to decide if he was making a joke or being serious._  

 _"Should I?" He tried again, certain that he had never, ever seen her before. Either she was crazy or he must have been absolutely_ _black out drunk when they did_ _meet_ _. Once again, not impossible, but unlikely. Even in his worst moments, he would have remembered her; no way in hell you could ever forget a face like that. Dark hair, big blue eyes, a cute button nose, dimples; yeah, she was_ _something_ _alright. Pretty and_ _cutesy_ _, but with_ _a_ _bitter edge that absolutely_ _ent_ _ailed_ _him._ _Was she his type? Did it_ _matter_ _? No, not really. There was something about her that made her appealing in every regard._  

 _He should have remembered her. And yet..._  

 _"Seriously, Dean? I can't believe this." She shook her head, fingers trembling around her_ _notepad_ _, creasing the paper under her white knuckles. This time it wasn't so much anger as it was offense. Pain. He had hurt her, the words cutting deep, and as she turned her head to the side, not meeting his gaze, Dean felt a sudden spike of guilt. Guilt so sharp and intense that he fumbled, at a_ _loss for words._ _Whoever she was, she knew him. He must have meant a lot to her. This wasn't the same as him messing around with a girl and just not calling her back after night one. She was hurt. She was heartbroken. The look on her face said it all. And still, he didn't even know who she was._  

 _"_ _Okay, listen. I'm... really sorry about all of this. I didn’t mean to upset you or anything like that. I just wanted breakfast." He vouched, hoping to come off as_ _sincere_ _. Once again, she couldn't decide if he was joking or actually trying. With a sigh, caught under her heated gaze, Dean tried again, "I am, truly, sorry. I don't mean to be such an asshole. Why don't we just start all over and I can make this right?"_  

 _"H_ _i_ _," He said, showcasing one of_ _those_ _brilliant smiles that made most women melt, "Name's_ _Dean Winchester_ _."_  

 _She stared at him for a long moment, holding her breath, not saying anything. Maybe it was a stupid idea. Maybe he was being just a little_ _insensitive_ _by joking like so. Nevertheless, whatever the case, Dean's efforts paid off. It took a moment, maybe two or three, but finally her expression, ever so slightly, softened. And, for Dean, that was the beginning of the end._  

* * *

 

Dean glowered out the window as the car approached, peeking between parted curtains.  

The attic around him was dark and shadowy, the only light streaming in from outside. The bulb hadn't worked up here for years and, even if it did, Dean had no way to turn it on. If there was one thing he hated about all of this, it was that he couldn't touch anything anymore. It all just went right through him. Like a hand through smoke. He had been under the impression that when someone died they became like Patrick Swayze, busting baddies from beyond the grave. He felt thoroughly cheated.  

Pressing so close to the glass, Dean squinted as the car doors opened, two men climbing out. Even from his place high up above them he could tell they were both quite grim; the taller one had his arms crossed, not daring to look at his partner. Meanwhile, pintsized stalked around like he was looking for a fight, body language screaming impatience. Dean waited until the two of them disappeared from view, stepping onto the porch with lips moving fast. They must have been arguing. Even with a couple of seconds to form his impression, Dean knew those two didn't get along. There was no doubt about. They both seemed bitter in each other's company. Were they brothers? If so, he could relate. The feeling of loving someone to death while simultaneously wanting to crack them upside the head was a complex thing, one that he was no stranger to. Dean sighed at the thought, something twisting deep inside his chest, and moved back from the window.  

All this thinking of brotherly love and sibling rivalry was making him sick. He needed to cut that shit out. Wasn't that why he stopped looking at people in the first place? He didn't want to think about anything. Not family, not friends. God, he absolutely loathed the living.  

Dean didn't like to think that he was bitter. Nor did he like to think that he was actually dead. But both those things were pretty irrefutable at this point and, having said that, he couldn't help but hate. Looking around the attic, filled with dust and mold and junk, air as cold as ice thanks to his presence, Dean couldn't help but let his bad thought fester in here. What else was he supposed to do?  

From the day he died, Dean had been trying to make this place better. He wanted it to be better.  He didn't want to sit around for years on end fuming over how life dealt him a shitty hand. That was torture. An eternity in hell. But that's how it happened to be. From the first person who moved in to the last, Dean tried to make it fun for himself. He watched them and followed them, observed them and tried to stay entailed without being in the way. In the end, seeing it all, seeing the world move on without him was like a knife to the heart. With each passing day, each passing hour that he was stuck here, he could feel himself forgetting. He didn't remember what it was like anymore. To be alive. And he loathed that.   

Eventually, when the bitterness kicked in, Dean had begun spending more and more time in the attic. No one ever came up here. He didn't have to see them. He didn't have to be reminded of what he was missing out on. Just seeing another person sent him spiraling. He hated it. He hated them. All of them. And as he thought of the two men marching right up to his front door, undoing the lock and striding on in, he was seething. He didn't want them here. He didn't want anyone here. He just wanted to be left alone. Whether it be two years or ten or ten thousand, he just wanted to sit in his attic, away from any and every one, and be left alone. It hurt too much any other way.  

* * *

Gabriel groaned as Castiel fiddled with the lock on the front door, trying once then twice to get it to open with his key. The old thing was practically rusted shut, turning laboriously with a shrill whine. His brother stepped aside, offering him first entrance.  

Pushing his way inside, dropping the bag he was carrying beside the entrance, Gabriel peered around the living room. It was exactly what you would except given the condition of the outside; the house smelled of must and mildew, old wall paper peeled and faded, hard wood floor dull and ugly. There was a stair case to his left, leading up to the second floor, and a kitchen beyond that, one that looked like it had come straight from a hellish nineteen sixties better homes and garden magazine. Whoever had owned the place before Castiel definitely didn't spend much time cleaning and didn't care enough to take all their shit with them when they left. There was a scuffed coffee table in the center of the room and a putrid green couch lining the wall, one that matched wondrously with the destroyed wall paper.  

"So, this is it, huh?" Gabriel turned towards Cas with a forced smile, gritting his teeth all the while, confused beyond normal means, "You broke your lease and packed your bags to move in here?" 

Castiel sigh, pulling the door closed behind him. From the way his brother spoke, he could tell he was less than pleased. Did he blame him? No, not really. When Castiel saw the place for the first time, he too was reluctant. It was a mess, it was out of the way, it was nothing like he expected. And yet, there were many reasons he wanted to live here. Very valid reasons, too. If only he brother saw them as well. "I know what you're thinking, but given a little time, I think it could look nice."  

"Yeah, nice." Gabriel murmured to himself, moving towards the couch. He ran his fingers along the arm, pulling back and cringing as he saw the dust transferred on his skin. Glancing upwards, he could help himself as he asked, "And how long did you say it's been since someone lived here?"  

"The previous owner said she moved out in January of 2012." Castiel could already hear his reply. He knew what Gabriel was going to say, how he would react. Holding his breath, hoping to ignore whatever quip his brother shot back with, Castiel bent over to retrieve the bag Gabriel had dropped by the door. He quickly opened it and began setting out the contents on the old coffee table, making a mental note of each; a bottle of bleach, a couple of sponges, window cleaner, paper towels, rubber gloves, wood polish, soap, disinfectant spray. He had raided the cleaning isle of the store with Gabriel in tow that morning, hoping to get a whole day's worth of cleaning in and at least have the place looking half way decent before the moving van arrived. As of right now, however, he didn't know if he was going to get any work done with Gabriel shuffling about. Why on earth had he ever agreed to let him come along? He easily could have done this on his own. He didn't need his brother's help. Castiel was sorely questioning his judgement.  

"Over five years...," Gabriel finally piped, glancing around as though he was deep in thought. A moment later, he took a deep breath, pressing his hands together, biting his lower lips as though he was holding back a whole slur of insults, "Okay, so, I'm not, you know, questioning your judgement or your sanity, but why do want to live here?"  

"It's quiet, out of the way. I think it's the perfect place for me. Big, roomy, a great place to work from. I know it's a bit of a fixer upper, but..." Castiel stalled, not knowing why he was even justifying this with a response.  

"But?"  

"But it was cheap." He said finally, shrugging his shoulders slightly as he unscrewed the lid on the tub of bleach. Immediately, the smell burned his nose, "She wanted practically nothing for the place."  

"And do you know the reason why? Because this place is a dump."  

"Gabriel, please, don't patronize me. You haven't even seen the place yet. You don't know." He defended.  

"I don't need to. I can already tell it's disgusting." Gabriel just couldn't wrap his mind around it. Of course, him and Castiel weren't close. Not as close as Gabriel had been with his older brother, but he did know Castiel well enough to realize that he wasn't stupid. Naive, yes. Stupid, no. He wasn't as impulsive as Gabriel. He usually had better judgement than Gabriel. He had a good job, a decent amount of savings, and lived in a considerably nice apartment. So, why did he want to pack up and settle in somewhere like this. He couldn't wrap his head around it. Was there something more going on?  

"That's why I wanted to come before I actually moved in; to clean. I told you that."  

"Well, you'll be doing it by yourself." He confided, "I'm not touching anything. You know me. I'm not that type of guy who minds getting down and dirty. Trust, some of the places I hang out in are not up to code, but this place..."  

"You're overdramatic." Castiel sighed as he replaced the contents he had been mulling over in their bag. His expression was etched with doubt and, after a long moment of consideration, he pulled the recite out of the bottom of the bag and dug in his pocket for something.   

"No, I'm worried Castiel. Because you're moving way out in the sticks somewhere; a place that's two states away, where the cell service is shit, the neighbors are few and far between, and the house you're going to be living in should have been condemned probably around 65'. That's why I'm worried." Gabriel ranted as his brother produced a pencil, scribbling something onto the back of the paper he held.  

"I can take care of myself." He said dismissively, half listen to what Gabriel was trying to say. Fuming, the other sighed, shaking his head.  

"You know, dad always pegged me as the rebellious one. But you? You're just as bad as the rest of them, aren't you? Michael maybe a douche and I may be an asshole, but at least we have enough sense to not make stupid fucking decision like this." He sputtered, honestly surprised, voice loud and demanding of attention. Seeing no rise in his brother, Gabriel tried again, this time quieter, "I never expect you to leave like all the rest of them. Dad, Raphael, Luc..."  

"Stop trying to make this about our brothers or father when it's clearly not." Castiel cut him off, holding up his hand for silence. Gabriel promptly obliged, eyeing the other curiously, waiting for him to say something more. With a sigh, clearly annoyed, Castiel approached quickly, shoving something into Gabriel's hand, "Here, since you're so eager to be anywhere else, I forgot a few things when we left. I saw a couple of stores along that straight stretch about twenty minutes back.  Take this and don't spend forever goofing off. I know how you are."  

"I don't think more trash bags and dish washing liquid is going to fix your problems, Cassie." Gabriel informed, glancing over the list. It irked him to no end that Castiel didn't want to talk more about this. It was like he had some big secret under wraps. Like he didn't want to tell Gabriel the real problem. He could only sit and wonder. Was it something big? Was it a money problem? Was it him? He didn't know. He really wanted to know.  

"Gabriel, please." Castiel sighed, "I don't have time for this. I have to go through everything, clean the floors, throw stuff away, wash the windows, the bathroom, the kitchen, the attic...."  

"Alright, alright. I'll be back in a minute, but this isn't over, Cas." He intended the last line to be assuring, intense, like he meant it. However, it came out halfheartedly. Stuffing the list into his pocket, still shaking his head as he went, Gabriel made his way back out the front door, snapping the screen door in his wake.  

Once he was gone, Castiel could breathe easy. He loved his brother- he honestly did- and in the last few years they had grown a lot closer. Since everyone else seemed to drop off the face of the earth, Castiel found himself stuck with his brother; the only family he had left. Not that they didn't have their fair share of arguments and fights. No, they had plenty of those. It just felt wrong to be so secretive around him, to disregard what trust they had developed. Especially when it came to something so serious. Castiel wanted nothing more than to tell his brother the truth. And yet, every time he tried, he hesitated. The words just wouldn't come.  

Sighing to himself, glancing back at the bag of cleaning supplies, Castiel reminded himself of what he was really here to do. Not wallow in his own guilt; he could have done anywhere. He only had two days to clean before the moving van arrived. Two days before he officially moved in. He had to sweep and mop and scrub and wash and, most of all, he had to go through the attic. That was his first target; the most disgusting room in the house.  

* * *

 

Castiel made his way up the stairs, silent in his deliberation, listening as the house creaked around him. It seemed to breath with his movements, each noise correlating to his steps. It persisted, becoming more shrill and achy with every passing second. Finally, with the worn boards protesting under his feet, he reached the attic's landing. Even from outside, he could smell the must and mildew seeping from between the cracks in the frame.  

Not wanting to draw out the torture any longer, he stepped inside, listening as the door whined on its hinges. Instantly, a wave of cold air washed over him, stealing his breath. He could feel it clogging his throat, freezing his lungs, making his chest throb; the stark contrast from every other room in the house shocked him. So much so, that Castiel had to pause for a moment.   

The room around him was small and cramped. Tethered cardboard boxes lined the walls, stacks of old record lay in the corner, a dust caked mirror glittered dully through the dim. There was a small coffee table in the center of the room, piled high with trash; from stained candelabras to a set of ornate plates to a wide variety of knee high socks, holey and left in a crumbling shoe box. From his place by the door, he could see a lamp with a bust shade propped against the back wall, a weather-beaten beach umbrella, and boxes upon boxes.  

At first glance, it was obvious that most of this stuff had been here for years. Everything was old, dust covered, faded. A lot of things would need to be thrown away, far too worn and abused to be of any use. Castiel sighed. The air tasted stale on his tongue.  

Tabatha, the women who owned the house previously, had warned him against dealing with the attic.  

 _It's going to be a lot of_ _work to clean up that mess_ _,_  she had murmured, _and I never really tried. I don't like it in there._ _It always kind of gave me the creeps._  

She had waved dismissively at the door as Castiel peeked inside, stealing a quick glance before leaving. It had been his first look at the house and, seeing such a mess, definitely put him off. But he needed the extra space and the thought of leaving it in such disarray didn't sit right with him. It may have been a lot of work, but eventually he would get it done. As soon as Gabriel got back he would start cleaning. Right now, however, he just wanted to know if any in there was salvageable.  

Stepping further into the room, watching as his feet left imprints on the grimy floor, Castiel breathed in the cold air, glaring at the piles of junk surround him. He didn't know where to start. He knew the box of socks, the lamp shade, the beach umbrella and the mirror were definitely going to go. As well as the curtains on the window, hanging limp and peppered with holes. Moths, he assumed. 

As for what to keep, the records were safe or, at the very least, he would see if there were any that interested him. Perhaps he could find something vintage that he liked? Who knew in a place like this. Other than that, there wasn't much that looked to be in good condition. The majority of the room was packed with cardboard boxes, unmarked and battered, stacked so high they almost touched the roof. Now, going through all those was going to be a job. 

Castiel approached the mountain of boxes with determination, reaching up high for the first one and nearly bring down the whole stack. Whoever had put them there was very precise about it, making an exact three by three wall, the heaviest ones being on top. He quickly dropped it in front of him, sitting on his knees on the floor. He could feel the dust beneath him, clinging to the cuff of his pants, staining his knees. As soon as Gabriel got back, this was the first place he was going to clean. No matter if he was up here often or not, just seeing such disarray aggravated him. By far, the attic was the most deserving part of the house when it came to the title of disgusting.  

Pulling at the yellowing tape that lined the top Castiel propped the box open, peering down into it with curious eyes. As he expected, it was mostly clothes; ones that definitely didn't fit the term useful. Sunday dresses, a pair of flat toed shoes, sweaters, hand knitted cable scarves; admitted the garments were quite presentable, not in bad condition, and pretty stylish, but still he had no need for them. Quickly piling everything back inside, he moved on. The next box he got down was considerably lighter than the first, only being half full. Similar to before, Castiel pulled back the tape and looked inside.  

This time, it wasn't clothes. Rather, the box was full of pictures, pictures, and more pictures. He picked up the first one, holding it up in the dim light. It was a man dressed in overalls standing in front of the house. Castiel couldn't help as he gaped at the photo, surprised to see the place when it was in its prime. Painted walls, a new swing, a flourishing yard; it was hard to believe considering how the house looked now. Beneath that was another of the same man, this time dressed in a white shirt and black pants, a dark tie strapped to his neck. Beside him, a young girl was clutched to his side, smiling, dressed in a frilly summer dressed and wearing a matching pair of sandals. Daughter, maybe? She looked teenaged, pushing more towards her late high school years. Was this her graduation perhaps? Some holiday? They both looked incredibly happy, smiling out at the camera. Her long dark hair curled down over her shoulders, pulled back in some odd manner that Castiel didn't quite understand the purpose of. A simple ponytail would have sufficed and been a lot more practical.  

Flipping on to the others, Castiel found more pictures of the same man, aging and changing. Once he was thirty, then he was twenty, then the pictures moved to far later in his life, times when he was old and tired, face sunken and creased with wrinkles. There were more of the girl too, sometimes being older, sometimes being younger, and sometimes she was accompanied by a woman who look incredibly similar to her. That must have been her mother.  

Castiel stared, invested, as images of parties and Christmas, picnics and weddings came to pass. The young girl getting her first car, having a birthday party, watching firework. The man at the beach with his wife, working hard in the garden, sitting at the dinner table. Castiel had to wonder how someone could leave such a thing behind, all the pictures and memories. Didn't he want them? The man? Perhaps he should ask Tabatha and she if she could return them to their rightfully owner. If it were pictures of him and his family- despite how rocky his family happened to be- Castiel would still want to keep them. Until then, he closed the box with care, pushing it far to the side, making a mental note to keep them.  

Moving on to the final box in the first stack, Castiel wasn't sure what to expect; more clothes or more photos. He hoped for the latter, find it all to be quite interesting. His brothers always said he was the curious one- be it as a compliment or an insult- and that always proved to be true. There was just something so endearing about viewing someone else's life through photographs. Like looking in through a window, piecing together a history through brief moments. He actually enjoyed it.  

Castiel cracked open the box with vigor, hoping to find something of interest. Immediately, he felt the sharp edge of disappointment. Looking inside, all he saw was more old clothes; overalls, baseball caps, stained work boots. Castiel began piling the clothes beside him, taking a second to glance at each of them. A lot of worn flannel, mud stained jeans, faded ties. He dug through the box, disinterested, wondering if maybe this belong to the old man in the photos. He scrapped the bottom of the box, heaving the final stack of clothes onto the dusty attic floor. More flannel, more overalls, and.... Castiel paused. Right there, on the bottom of the pile, was something very different from anything else he had found.  

Castiel pulled the jacket from the bottom of the stack and held it up in the dim, examining it, running his fingers over the thick leather. Unlike everything else it was worn in a very specific way, well used, but taken care of. Perhaps it had a lot of sentimental value? He couldn't be sure. 

 Standing with the jacket in hand, Castiel toyed with the thought of trying it on. Nothing else in the entire attic really drew him in. Nothing except this. He looked at the jacket closer, liking the aged appearance of it, liking the feel of it. Pausing for a moment, holding it up in front of him, Castiel glanced towards the old dusty mirror across the room. He thought for a moment, approaching slowly. Of course, the jacket was a little musty and definitely needed to be dusted off, but Castiel couldn't stop himself as he pulled it onto his shoulders.  

He peered at himself in the mirror, quickly wiping his hand across the stained surface for a better view. He certainly looked different. Odd. This wasn't his style. It didn't quite match with his tie and white-collared shirt. Nevertheless, Castiel liked it. He really liked it.  

Standing before the mirror, turning from left to right, Castiel stared at himself. He pulled the jacket tighter, straightened the collar, pushed his hands deep into the pockets, relishing in the warmth that opposed the icy chill that filled the room. It was comfortable; heavy, but not too heavy, thick, but not too thick. Just wearing it made him feel warm, safe. It was perfect, even with its musty smell, and Castiel felt a deep impulse to keep it.  

"Finally, something I might actually want." Castiel murmured to himself, thinking of his old trench coat with its frail hem and loose buttons, "I've been needing a new jacket." 

As soon as the words left his lips, Castiel jolted, jumping back as though he had been shocked. Immediately, he felt something on his shoulder, like a hand coming to grab him. The fingers latched onto him, ironclad and intense, pulling hard, trying their best to drag him away from the mirror. Immediately, he retched away, panic rising in his chest. He could feel it, the sensation irrefutable. There was no doubting that someone grabbed him and, as Castiel jerked around to confront his assailant, he expected to find Gabriel, laughing and grinning at such a clever prank. Immediately, his breath caught in his throat.  

Castiel took one step back, then two, coming to a stop when he struck the mirror behind him. He stood, trembling, surprised to find that he was still alone in the attic. He wanted to think that this was one of Gabriel's pranks. That he brother had grabbed him and hid, hoping to get a reaction. Yet, the impossible hope was far too much to expect. There would have been nowhere for him to go. Nowhere to hide. Absolutely impossible. Nevertheless, Castiel tried.  

"Gabriel, was that you?" He asked into the open air, silence being his only reply. Of course, no one answered. Gabriel wasn't even back yet. He didn't have enough time to be back yet.  

Now thoroughly shaken, Castiel glanced around the attic, glowering at all the empty space that surrounded him. He was still alone; alone with the knee highs and the candelabras, the old records and stained mirror, the photographs and the beach umbrella. He was all alone and very paranoid. Alone and very uncertain. A bad feeling was twisting in his gut, one that screamed run. One that was begging him not to stay a moment longer. He had felt someone touch him. He knew he had. A cold hand wrapping just along his bicep, intent and angry.  And yet...there was nothing there. He was all alone. He just stood there, stone still among the dust and the boxes and useless junk he would never need, incredibly cold and unsettled.  

Shaking his head, still shivering as the odd sensation lingered, Castiel breathed deep. Fear flushed through him, foolish and hot. He was getting spooked just like Gabriel said. Just like a child. Yet, it felt real. The bad feeling that lingered over him definitely felt real. Grumbling under his breath, unsure as to how he should feel, Castiel wasted no time in crossing the room and making his way to the stair. He didn't want to spend another moment in the attic, not anymore. And, in his eagerness to leave, he had accidentally taken the old leather jacket with him. The old leather jacket that belonged to one Dean Winchester.  

* * *

The room had fallen silent in the aftermath of Dean's actions, the only sound being the sober creak as Castiel rushed down the stairs and towards the living room.  

He stood there, frozen, hand still outstretched with fingers slowly curling and uncurling. His lips were parted, eyes glowing in the dim. The air around him ached, cold and shocking, finally settling after their disruptive scene.  He could still see Castiel standing in front of him, those blue eyes blown wide in shock. His shoulders had trembled, one hand coming to graze where he had been touched, fingers trailing down his biceps as his gaze flickered around the room.  

Why had he reached for him? Why had he touched him? Dean could still feel the emotions swirling inside him, a low rumble deep in his chest. Anger, pain, jealousy, sadness; each washed over him in turn as he had stood by the window, watching as Castiel pulled the old jacket from the box. His jacket. His father's jacket. He had slide it on his shoulders, glancing at himself in the mirror, turning from side to side, intending to keep it for himself. Dean wanted to scream, to say something, anything.  

"Hey jackass! Don't you know it's not polite to take someone else things without asking?" Dean thought viciously, pacing across the room before thinking better of it. He had grabbed him, wanting him to put it down, wanting him to leave. He never liked people messing with his stuff, especially when it was something that meant so much. Dean hadn't felt anger like that in a long time. And when he touched him.... Dean stared at his hand, still feeling the shock that raced through him when he touched Castiel. It was like being struck by lightning; hot and aching, yet so very cold. It was so foreign. So strange. He didn't know what to think.  

To be so close to someone, to actually touch someone; it was thrilling. Something that he sorely missed. And all he wanted was to do it again. It was such a simple thing, just a graze of his hand, and yet, Dean was reeling. He wanted to touch, to feel, to live. Such a simple thing caused a craving in him like never before and, after being so secluded for all those years, he longed to touch someone again and not have them run away in fright. This was why he hated people. They always reminded him of what he couldn't have.  

 

 


End file.
